A still more glorious dawn awaits. (Cesan)

[Matthias Walker]

There are, as far as Mattie can tell, exactly two ways the night is going to end.

Option number one is that he sleeps in his car—not a totally unpleasant option in and of itself, but still a pretty big drop from the bed he’s just started to get used to. Option number two is that he finds a different bed, which will probably contain another human being, but is still a hell of a lot more appealing than trying to pretend the headrest is a remotely good pillow. Besides, at least trying for option number two makes Matthias feel like he’s a little bit in control of what happens, instead of like he’s giving up because he fell a little too hard and ran the fuck away.

It may be the truth but that doesn’t mean Matthias has to acknowledge its existence. Especially not when he’s surrounded by strangers, the hoodie he stole from Silas abandoned in his car. A faded old T-shirt and jeans are far from practical with the chill of the night beginning to set in, a light drizzle starting and stopping in sporadic fits, but hey, a couple drinks and company go a long ways to warming up. Provided he can find a couple drinks and company.

Yeah, minor flaw in the plan, that.

He’s pretty sure being able to play the field isn’t something that’s so easily forgotten over the span of a few short weeks, fortunately. Smooth steps are already carrying the hunter towards the bar as his gaze sweeps around the warmly-lit room in a casual (if not terribly subtle) once-over. There’s a girl perched at a booth alone, and Matthias is halfway across the room to her when a more familiar option catches his eye and he stops, blinks, and turns ninety degrees on his heel to consider the merits of revisiting a past fling. It’s been—what, a week or so? Not so long he’s forgotten the man’s name (or the impromptu nickname), and there would be no hesitation at all, but he’s already got company in the form of some other stranger playing pool with him, so—

On the other hand, Cesan cleans up nice, and even if he looks like he’s enjoying the game, there’s no privacy please sign hanging on the table. Probably because do not interrupt games in progress is implied in polite company, but hey, for all Mattie knows, he might actually have first dibs, and he’s never been very good at resisting temptation anyway.

Even if it gets him a few glares along the way.

Especially if it gets him a few glares, tonight.

Girl in the booth completely forgotten, Mattie weaves his way through the tables, announces his presence by waiting for Cesan to straighten up from taking a shot and promptly sitting on the pool table next to him, swinging his legs in childish impatience to be noticed. “Hey, Dexter—” because he does, after all, remember people by the obnoxious nicknames, although hunter with a thing for blood and books is unique enough even without it, “—and here I thought I’d only ever see you in dark alleys and libraries.”

The other man goes pointedly ignored; Matthias leans forward, bats his eyelashes in mock coquettishness utterly at odds with the wide grin and the faux-innocent, “Come here often?”

[Cesan]

Contrary to popular belief, the work of a blood spatter analyst is not always gory murder scenes and pools of the human body’s poison. The Hunter had spent practically all day in the forensics lab on the laptop—reading scans of slides, reviewing photographs and arguing with a much less experienced analyst on what the angles and length of spatters meant for the crime. It had been an incredibly long and even more boring day for him, and a large part of the man is more than happy to leave the building and go home. The events that proceed after his exit of the workplace are routine and well-practiced—meaning that on a normal night, Cesan Ruthven would be driving down the highway with every intention in the world of going home, sitting down and watching TV before passing out for the night.

So the reason as to why Cesan drives past his apartment is unknown, parking in the lot of a bar after a short drive. Nothing about his clothes changes other than the sudden absence of his lab coat as he pushes in the bar door. It’s such an astoundingly rare occurrence that he branches out in this manner, leaving the safe haven that is his apartment to merge with the rest of the world. There’s a degree of freedom in a bar that Cesan is rarely allowed to take part in; his life is strict and routine, carefully monitored by the policemen and detectives that work alongside him. The bar is wild and untamed, filled with strange unsophisticated animals (the majority of which without degrees) and creatures that Cesan feels that he can use to blend for a short period of time.

He blends, poorly so, by slipping into the very back of the bar where he spies a man playing a game of pool by his lonesome, and it takes no time at all for the Scotsman to slip in and ask politely if he could join. He’s met with a suspicious stare and, as the night progresses on, as does the game. Cesan has it in his mind that he may just be winning when another body appears into view, visible only from his peripheral vision, but distracting enough for his shot to become a miss. The cue ball is hit at a terrible angle and goes spinning into the completely wrong direction, and when Cesan straightens with the butt of the cue hitting tapping the ground next to his shoe in mild irritation.

Without Mattie’s swift intervention, Cesan may have just turned around to snap at the offender.

Instead, it’s a familiar face that slides up onto the pool table, making it very difficult for his playing partner to do much else than glare viciously at the blue eyed man that had entered the room. Socializing with past flings had never exactly been Cesan’s favorite thing to do, but considering the situation, Cesan can allow a small smile to be given to Mattie’s remark. His weight is leaned closer to Mattie, forward onto the table with one arm, arching a brow with a widening grin. “Ah find tha’ a bar’s a nice medium, don’ you?” Grey eyes shift across from Mattie to meet the aggravated brown of the man he had been playing with, appearing to quickly lose his patience for Mattie’s interruption.

But he is just as easily ignored, and the blue-eyed hunter gets his wish of being the center of attention.

“S’tell meh, Matthias,” he begins, straightening back up with a playful grin on his lips. “Is this coincidence, or pure luck?” Boston is a big city, and despite Cesan’s stationary settlement, it’s rare that the Scot ever runs into familiar faces—much less any of the prettier ones.

[Matthias Walker]

Well at least one of them is happy to see him—or just nice enough to pretend to be happy to see him.

The rudeness of butting in on the game, of effectively stopping the game by sitting on the pool table, is not lost on Matthias, but Cesan greets him warmly enough that the vague remnants of his conscience are dismissed. He isn’t interested in the happiness of the other man—although he probably should be, if only because the cue is being wielded in a manner that is vaguely threatening and decidedly impatient—and as long as Cesan will acknowledge his existence, Mattie is inclined to stay exactly where he is, leaning forward to brace forearms loosely over his knees, matching the man’s smile with an easy grin that widens at the accent. (His is an appreciation far from academic— Matthias has always taken unholy glee in accents of any kind—but he’s pretty sure that as accents go, Cesan’s makes the top ten at least.)

“Could call it luck if you want,” he offers, “Or great minds think alike, which is a lot more flattering.”

The click of the cue against the floor—very pointedly and emphasized with a glare burning into the back of his neck—has Mattie slanting a mock innocent glance over his shoulder at the other man, lips still caught in the curve of a mischievous grin. There is no part of him that is sorry about stealing away Cesan’s attention, and he raises a somber eyebrow at the man before he turns back to Cesan. “So you should come grab a drink with me or something,” he says, as if getting a drink and finishing the game are not mutually exclusive and guaranteed to annoy the man that Mattie has effectively turned into—at least in his own mind—the third wheel.

“—unless,” he deigns to add, nodding at the man absently and earning another eloquent glare and click of the cue, “You’re busy here, didn’t mean to butt in like that, just got excited. Don’t usually run into the same person twice in one city. Especially—” he waves one hand in an abstract indication of Cesan, an all-encompassing gesture left to interpretation, punctuated with the flash of an arch smile, “—so, you know. We should catch up or something. Blood, dead people, and books, right? And pool, that a new hobby?” A last-minute addition, another cheeky acknowledgment of the game that he is interrupting.

He’s still not sorry. If the other guy doesn’t have the balls to say something about it, then Matthias will take it as a sign that he is free to be situate himself as comfortably as he wants here—and to ignore the man as much as he wants. His goals here may not mesh with the other man’s in the slightest, but Mattie refuses to sabotage himself by playing nice when the other man is settling for passive-aggressive looks.

Just as long as the cue remains planted on the ground and isn’t turned into an impromptu weapon, he should be fine.

[Cesan]

Cesan has always liked to think of himself as a more responsible man—the idea of flings and one night stands had never particularly appealed to him, so it is safe to assume that incidences, such as the ones similar to Mattie’s, are a rare occurrence. This being said, the Scotsman has never taken the time out of his day to truly meet or greet any individuals that he would much rather refer to as “the past.” Mattie is a completely different case, evident by Cesan’s easy smiles and much warmer welcome than his pool-playing partner regards them with. The younger hunter’s attitude is harder to ignore than the quickly-irritated man behind them, possibly due to the fact that he makes it complicated to continue the game—what with his ass on the table. Mattie earns an aggravated sigh from the man and a humored smile from Cesan, and no more than two seconds after Mattie’s offer, the voice spurs from behind them in a low growl.

“Fuckin’ fags.”

It’s meant as an insult purely to his irritation, as most slurs are, but the pure irony in his words cause Cesan to chuckle. “Can’ say tha’ I’m busy at all,” he intones quietly, tossing a glance to the man who had now taken to leaning against the wall, staring off into space, too clearly waiting for them both to leave. “Sorry ‘bout that, lad.” But he does not appear sorry at all when he pushes his weight off of the pool table and leaves Mattie, leaning the cue against the wall with little care or intention of putting it back to its rightful place. After spinning on his heel and tapping a light hand on Mattie’s arm, he walks into the body of the bar, easily moving through the crowd of people. “Wouldn’t call pool a new hobby,” The Scotsman says without looking back. “New enough tha’ I don’ do it often.” That he does not come here often. He is far from the typical pick-someone-up type of man, and this is far from his idea of what a weekend’s nights should be made of.

But with Mattie here—familiar company, to say the least, the night is worth the time.

The bar itself is a welcomed sight and by the time that Cesan has asked the tender for a scotch, he’s already turning to face Mattie again. “Call me ah multi-interested mutt,” It seems that there is little to be tied together in blood, dead bodies and a lasting interest in soft poetry and books, with just a touch of a secret inner nerd with a love for microbiotic genetics. The smile is back, now with a glass in his hand and whiskey on his lips. He hadn’t come here to drink—but Cesan has never been a man that has been able to resist temptation, the very thing that bars are seemingly constructed of. He is just as selfish as Mattie may be, demanding attention by way of determined eye contact and implication in every smile tossed the Hunter’s way.

The glass hits the countertop again, and Cesan leans back with a sigh. “Wha’s brought yeh ta’ this ol’ bar? Lookin’ for me?” The sarcasm is evident there—as if Mattie’s real intentions for coming to the bar are not just as obvious as any other human beings. Intentions are painfully obvious from the beginning, speaking loudly from the clothes that a man wears to the activities that he chooses to partake in. Cesan has always enjoyed people-watching, and has observed on many occasions the loners at the bar—drowning their sorrows in whiskey. The lonely men and women who seek a bed to share, immediately seeking and finding the company of another person to spend the night with, a person they will likely never see again. “I’m certainly not worth yerr’ time, lad.”

He and Matthias had been a fortunate accident. What Cesan had wholly expected to be a night of gunshots and a spilled animal’s blood had turned into something much more fun and memorable. Not all memories are re-visited as soon as this one, and yet, Cesan finds that he is at ease with the coincidence.

Or, as Mattie puts it, the workings of two great minds.

[Matthias Walker]

Apparently they are stepping it up a notch and ascending from glaring to name-calling.

Matthias deigns to throw another look over his shoulder at the man bristling and growling, still clutching the cue. Taking offense does not, generally, come easy to him anymore; Mattie has been called much worse and considering the circumstances, it isn’t as if it’s inaccurate. Besides, it has the added bonus of coinciding very nicely with Cesan agreeing to set aside the game for a drink: Whether it was the other man’s pointed disapproval that incited it or not, Matthias is not inclined to worry about—what matters is that he gets his company for now—or for the night—and he’s all too pleased to slide off of the pool table to follow Cesan to the bar.

Borderline smug, in fact. The competition exists only in his own mind, but the games Mattie is accustomed to in bars are already askew with the very fact that he already knows Cesan—however slightly and however briefly; hunter, blood guy, and library is three things more than he usually knows about the one night stands, especially after the fact. That he remembers Cesan at all is a compliment in and of itself; names are usually the first to go. With new guidelines come an unfamiliar pattern, and Matthias allows himself to appreciate the small victories.

“Same’s what he’s having,” leaning against the bar with a quick wave at the bartender, and turns the lopsided grin to Cesan, settling in a loose slouch on the stool, offers a half-teasing, half-sincere, “Multi-interested and multi-talented? Thanks,” the obligatory nicety offered to the bartender as he accepts the glass of scotch, taps his fingers on the rim thoughtfully. Scotch had not, a few weeks ago, been his thing, but there is, Mattie has found, nothing quite like staying with a man with an unquenchable taste for bourbon to help develop a taste for whiskey in general.

Still, the glass remains on the bar for time being—less because he doesn’t want it and more because he’s caught up watching Cesan.

In an entirely non-creepy way.

“Hey,” Mattie says, the tone near reprimanding, laced with amusement at the rampant sarcasm. He arches his eyebrows, mouth still slanted into a lopsided smile, “Gonna have to be a hell of a lot less subtle if you want me to go. People are generally boring, I already know you’re not, really not seeing where the problem is here.” He tips the glass of scotch at Cesan in silent toast, shifts to settle more comfortably on the bar stool—determined to stay, licking the whiskey from his lips as he sets the glass back onto the bar. “Did you just come to people-watch and play pool? Most people are a little better at the whole self-promotion thing, unless you just really have a hard-on for reverse psychology.”

Not that Mattie is anywhere near sorry at possibly ruining Cesan’s plans—he is more than arrogant enough to believe that he is probably better than the original anyway.

“Best laid schemes of mice and men…”

[Cesan]

Different people are very different creatures, Cesan has come to notice. It seems that there is not much that would connect the Scotsman and Mattie in the world—Hunting kept completely separate, Cesan’s interests had always been peaked by blood and biology—and where Mattie’s heart lies in the world of hobbies and interests remains a mystery to him. But judging from his reaction upon their initial meeting, Cesan’s guesses may not be anywhere close to the correct answer. Yet, of all of the things in the world, it seems that the game is just as sufficient a means of keeping two strangers chasing at the other’s tail.

Frigyes Karinthy had come up with the six degrees of separation, determining that any two people in the world could be connected to one another through six others. Cesan flips through names, faces and occupations in his mind, attempting to make any connection, and none is to be found—and yet Matthias sits across from him now, scotch in hand, with the grin of the devil on his lips. Cesan’s sense of intuition and common sense had been strong ever since he were a lad, and if there is any logic to be held in the way that the younger had strolled into his pool game and had sat on the table (and had effectively lured him away from it) then Cesan already has a strong idea of exactly where the night will go—as most nights do with bars and men.

And Cesan finds it hard to complain about the possible outcomes.

He raises his free hand in surrender when Mattie’s voice takes an almost admonishing tone. “Au contraire, mon cheri.” He says with the arch of a brow and a mocking expression, and quite possibly the worst mock-french accent that could have ever existed. “Ah think people can be pretty interestin’, if yeh ask me.” Often, peoples actions and reactions can be easily predicted just by the casual observance. The Scotsman has always found psychology interesting in that, even when people knew the outcome, they would still be surprised, even intrigued by the events to come. It is the reason why people watch the same movies, or go to the same stores, more than once. “Although I have t’say, the crowd’s not too impressive tonight.”

Back in Scotland, there was never a dull day in the bar. Americans are so tasteless.

“Reverse psychology has its points,” he says with a nod, actively avoiding Mattie’s questions. “But ah think it takes a bit more than that to get me goin’.” Fuck reverse psychology. Mattie is given a crooked smile that only widens in response to one of the most well-known poems, one that Cesan has committed to memory, both the original and the revised version. “The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley, an’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, for primis’d joy… Still thou are blest, compared wi’ me!” Fingers tap on the rim of the glass that remains safely under his hand. “Come on, now, lad. Yeh’re gonna make me homesick.” If there would be a single Scottish man or woman in the lowlands that claimed they hadn’t heard that poem at least once, they would be lying.

But the hand leaves the glass, and his arms are rested over his knees as he leaves forward, looking at Mattie with curious eyes and arched brows. “Yeh didn’ answer m’question, laddie.”

And so Mattie is given back his own devil’s grin.

[Matthias Walker]

It’s nice to know (albeit in an entirely pointless way, since neither applies to him) that having the kind of accent that can make metaphorical panties drop is not the same as being able to whip out other accents to the same effect.

Mattie smothers his grin along the rim of the glass of scotch, glances once around the bar. There has been very little change between now and his entrance, save for the fact that the man at the pool table is now alone, and his gaze skips over the girl in the booth entirely now. Bigger fish to fry—whatever appeal she might have had is effectively eclipsed by present company, Matthias’s biases towards the fairer sex aside. However interesting some people are the grand majority is sadly lacking (Mattie is just apparently more inclined to be judgmental than Cesan and assume it is a permanent affliction instead of just tonight), and Matthias offers a cheeky grin and an utterly and unrepentantly immodest, “Pretty lucky I’m here to make up for it, I’d hate for you to be bored.”

The smile leaves the realm of arrogant at the poetry, settles into appreciative. Poetry is more than good enough a reason to like someone, and the rareness of it over glasses of whiskey in bars makes it even better. The turnaround from poetry again has Mattie laughing, stealing time by taking a deliberate sip of the scotch, and when he sets it down it’s only to say, mock accusation still laced with the laugh and lopsided grin, “Don’t remember you answering mine, either.” Cesan may have asked first but Matthias has never been particularly fond of adhering to linear structures of conversation.

Still, “Not that much to tell—nothing important to do tonight,” as if looking for supernatural cases to follow up on has not been effectively put on hold recently. Silas was the main reason for Mattie’s shift in attention but getting tangled in the love lives of werewolves has never been his forte, and stepping away is a relief. There are undertones of something bigger going on, too, and he prefers to wait till the dust settles to get involved, “So I figured, hey, the alternative is sitting in my car listening to Justin Bieber on the radio or something. Comparatively, slightly sketchy bars are pretty good.”

It also helps that slightly sketchy bars give him the option of having an actual bed for the night—his car is only so comfortable, and he can’t afford to leave the engine constantly running for heat.

“Helps that the company’s worth staying for,” he adds, smile arch with mischievous implication, and cannot resist lapsing into immaturity, grin crooking wider and eyes bright with playful invitation, “Or leaving with, as the case may be, since we cannot make our sun stand still and all.” In the next heartbeat Matthias tips the glass of scotch at Cesan, the tease gone into a more platonically inquisitive glance, “My turn to get an answer now, I’m pretty sure. Playing pool, looking for a serial killer, looking for company—?”